


Phoenician Markets

by frostian



Series: Road to Ithaca [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, BAMF John, By Moffat & Co., Case Fic, Jossed, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love, discussions of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostian/pseuds/frostian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Revenge doesn’t come with an expiration date,” Sherlock said. </p><p>What was supposed to have been an investigation for a robbery turned murder becomes personal for Sherlock as he watches John fall for the survivor of the violent attack, Dr. Adam Brackenstall. A man who is everything Sherlock is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lestrade pulled out the last of the gauze from his left nostril, warily wiggling his nose to see if the bleeding would restart. Mercifully, it remained only swollen. The medic gave him a sympathetic smile and binned the used wads into a hazard bag. 

Lestrade limped his way to the other emergency vehicle where the Mayhem Twins were, chatting amiably and behaving as if they had a brisk stroll around St. James instead of running down a group of kidnappers through half of London. 

However, their physical conditions told a more honest tale. Sherlock had a spectacular road burn right down the center of his face, making him look like some lunatic had divided his face with red paint. John had bruised knuckles and a rough cut across his entire forehead, but for all that he looked the least injured out of the three of them.

They immediately quieted when they noticed Lestrade’s approach.

“The bleeding’s stopped. That’s good,” John said meekly.

Sherlock snorted and quickly looked away when he caught sight of pure ire in Lestrade’s black-ringed eyes.

“You bastards,” Lestrade began ranting, and then stopped when he heard “Oo btar” coming out of his mouth.

John looked sympathetic. “We really are sorry, Greg.”

Obviously, the former army doctor knew how to translate Broken Nose: probably because of his army service and his life with Sherlock.

“There was no way to stop the kidnappers,” Sherlock explained patiently, though the humourous turn of his mouth was more than enough to further aggravate Lestrade. “They were going to leave with the children, and once they were on the boat, it would’ve been impossible to catch them.”

Lestrade knew no such thing. He gave a grunt and immediately regretted it as his headache tripled in strength.

John grabbed a medic’s elbow and quietly spoke to him. Then, he turned to Lestrade and said, “I think you should go with them, and have your head checked out. It’s too risky to take any painkillers without knowing what’s happening inside that magnificent skull of yours.”

Lestrade figured as much as gave a softer grunt. He was trying to catch Donovan’s attention when he remembered something that he'd heard during the melee. 

He looked at the Mayhem Twins and asked, “What the bloody hell is Vatican Cameos?” 

Of course, what came out was complete gibberish but John understood well enough. The explanation that followed did much to assuage Greg’s damaged ego if not his face.

Unfortunately, by the time he arrived at Royal London, what little luck he had ran out. The staff was sympathetic to his need to finish off the ever-growing mounds of paperwork on his desk, but they insisted on a CAT scan since he did incur a head injury with visible contusions.

That turned into a ninety-minute session for MRI, MRA, and MRV because once they got him into a hospital gown, it turned into a free-for-all. By the end of his tour of the radiology floor Lestrade was aggravated beyond description, since the machine he was repeatedly shoved into made noises that worsened his headache despite the generous Tramadol dosage.

So, by sunset, Lestrade was about to discharge himself when John appeared. He explained thoroughly by using small words that Lestrade didn’t have any worrisome head trauma that would necessitate further scans. This was offset by the fact that the detective had the worst sinus infection in recent medical history.

Lestrade winced at that. The headaches, the steady dribble from his nose, and chronic insomnia all pointed towards John being right. And though he was loathed to agree, the medical staff had a good reason to keep him if the sinus infection was as tenacious as they suspected.

Sally Donovan appeared way past visiting hours, offering good, hot coffee along with lamb kebob plate from a local restaurant. Lestrade wolfed it all down hungrily while Sally looked on in amusement.

“What’s the diagnosis, then?” she asked.

“The damn thing is drug resistant,” Lestrade answered, hating that he sounded like Anderson. “They’re going to try stronger antibiotics.”

“Is that why they’re keeping you?”

“Yeah, but it’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”

Sally grunted. “If it weren’t I doubt Watson would’ve left. He’s got a way of bullying his way into medical emergencies when you’re involved.”

Lestrade grinned. “Got to say, it’s nice to have a doctor in your corner during times like these. He somehow got access to my charts and told me what was happening.”

Donovan looked around the room but saw no paperwork. “They’ve gone electronic, then?”

Lestrade nodded. “Makes you wonder how John managed to take a peek.”

“Probably Sherlock,” Sally commented. “And isn’t that a scary thought?”

“Not really. At least I know he’s doing it because he’s worried. Though he would rather skin a cat than tell me so.”

Donovan grinned. “Shouldn’t accept any gifts from him then. Just in case.”

Lestrade grimaced and finished his dinner in companionable silence. 

Donovan left with the promise that she’ll try to weed out the worst of the paperwork, but Lestrade knew she wouldn’t be able to do much. She was one of the most conscientious workers he’d ever come across, and could be counted on to dot every ‘I’ and cross every ‘T’ without being prodded, but what was left littered on his desk needed his official sanction.

“I see Detective Sergeant Donovan has been by.”

Lestrade was proud that he was able to maintain his poise. “Good evening, Mycroft.”

“I wanted to see how you fared from the exciting chase with my brother.”

Lestrade smiled. “Look, I know you don’t understand my relationship with Sherlock, and most of the time I don’t either, to tell the truth. But I’m not about to let him go haring off after the kidnappers, even with his mental flatmate by his side.”

“Because you’re the representative of the law?”

“That, and I’ve spent too many hours in the A&E with your nutter of a sibling.”

Mycroft’s lips thinned until they were nothing than a pale slash across his face. “Indeed, that does seem to be the case. I don’t know whether Sherlock has taken more risks since Dr. Watson has joined him, or his foolhardiness is growing larger out of its own accord.”

“When John was shot during that godawful Garrideb case, I heard something very telling.”

“And what was that, Detective Inspector?”

“When John woke up, Sherlock was standing right next to him. The first words out of John’s mouth was ‘are you all right?’ I don’t think Sherlock ever properly answered him.

“So, it’s just a guess, but I think John’s doing his best to make sure Sherlock lives to see another day.”

Mycroft’s smile softened. “Good to hear.”

“By the way, Sherlock needs new shirts and suits. The ones he’s wearing are starting to become obscene. My team is making bets when the buttons will give up the fight. I personally think they already did, but John’s been sewing them back on every single night like some house elf.”

“Dr. Watson’s regiment is doing wonders. I will make sure the proper tailors are notified about the changes. I only hope the improvement continues.”

“Amen to that.” 

Lestrade knew Mycroft needed no reminders on how terrible Sherlock was at taking care of himself. And that was when the poor bastard was sober.

“I must be leaving. There are two conference calls I must attend before midnight. Before I go, I need you to do something for me. The evening nurse will shortly give you another dose of oral antibiotics. They are two green pills, roughly the size of Brussels. However, I must insist that you take it.”

Lestrade sighed. “Do I want to know why?”

“They are great deal more effective than what is currently on the market.”

“Then why aren’t those on the market?”

“Because of the cost of production.”

Lestrade found himself unaccountably flattered. “Oh, umm … thanks.”

Mycroft’s smile lacked its usual smugness. In fact, it was downright gentle. “You’re welcome, Detective Inspector. Good night.”

“Be safe. I hate to think how these Sceptered Isles will carry on if something happened to you.”

“I have Anthea to see to my safety,” was the prim answer.

“I knew she was a ninja,” Lestrade muttered. And then dutifully ignored the soft, feminine laughter that drifted in from the hallway.


	2. Tragedy at Oakweld

Sherlock took a long, noisy sip of the tea before glancing at John. The doctor’s face remained stoically calm though the deep breaths he was taking told Sherlock that his friend was still agitated from the debacle that was the last case.

Sherlock could work out their impending argument in his mind:

> “Sherlock, how many times have I told you not to run off on your own?”
> 
> “But they were getting away! You even told Lestrade just that when we talked to him!”
> 
> “That was to calm him, you berk! With his injuries the last thing he needed was to have his blood pressure skyrocket!”
> 
> “Which he knew to expect when he called us in!”
> 
> “Sherlock, just because the Met needs us doesn’t mean we can rush headlong into a dangerous situation without knowing the risks!”
> 
> “Says the soldier!”
> 
> “Says the doctor and friend, to both of you! And I nearly lost both of you! Doesn’t that matter at all?”

Sherlock huffed out a breath and slammed down his teacup in frustration. “All right then, let’s have it out.”

The sudden noise startled John into staring at the agitated detective. “Have what out?”

“You’re still angry with me for what happened last week. So, let’s do the old song and dance, then we can get on with our lives.”

John frowned and sat up straight in his chair. “What are you going on about?”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be confused. “The impromptu knife fight at the wharf; what with you running after me and Lestrade?”

“Why would I be upset about that? The bastards were going to leave with the children. And, like you said, once they were on the boat, it would have been impossible to catch them. Bloody hell, they might even have made their way to sea if we hadn’t stopped them.”

“Oh,” Sherlock perked up from his position. “Well … I’m glad you’ve seen reason. But I don’t understand; what has you aggravated so?”

“Constable Peters asked me out for dinner.”

Any good mood Sherlock had dissipated. “Oh, I see. Which one is that?”

“The cheerful redhead who helped us with the evidence?”

Sherlock vaguely remembered the woman: she smiled quite a bit, and for no discernable reason. He had initially thought she was rather soft in the head, but the inane chatter she initiated with John told him, no: not stupid, just vapid.

“I see,” Sherlock said, hoping he didn’t sound as irked as he felt. Yet another woman with designs on John: how tiresome! Why did these creatures insist on putting themselves in the way of the Work? Not to mention Sherlock’s inevitable interest in their relationship and its doom?

Surely, his ability to shoehorn his way into John’s romantic life was legendary by now. Especially since John had little compunction in documenting all the ways Sherlock had scuttled his dates. And Lestrade had even managed to witness two of these events.

And yet, here was Constable Peters, hoping for…

“She’s a lovely woman, but too young for me. She can’t be older than twenty-three, and I don’t want to stir up any trouble with Greg.”

Sherlock let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Quite right,” he said firmly. “Not to mention she has three older brothers who are undoubtedly very protective of their only female sibling.”

John winced. “And then there is that. I had no idea. How did you?”

“Her shoes, and the three bracelets on her wrist. Though, I believe that is against dress regulation.”

“Like I said, young.” John briskly rubbed his hands on the chair’s armrest. “Do you want pasta for dinner?”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, Mother.”

“Look, laddie,” John said, his accent suddenly dipping into the Highlands. “We talked about this…”

“If you think…”

Sherlock’s phone made its rude noise: a sound that never failed to make John laugh.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock groused as he checked the text. The humour in his eyes dimmed as he read the text.

“What is it?” John asked.

“There’s been a murder. Mycroft … he is upset, John. Genuinely shaken. He’s misspelled two words.”

John didn’t need any further prompting. Within minutes the two men dashed down the stairs and into the fading daylight.

* * *

Anthea had sent the car instead of fetching them personally. This normally wouldn’t worry John, but from what little he knew of the murder, he hoped she was doing everything possible for Mycroft. The last thing the British People needed was to have the British Government compromised.

The drive was long, made longer by Sherlock who was anxiously scrolling through various news outlets on his phone. John noted the slow increase of trees and open land while tall buildings melted out of sight. He figured they were traveling southwest when he kept seeing park spaces. 

The car pulled up to a grand estate, whose beautiful façade was marred by the cold lights of the various medical and police vehicles parked haphazardly on the gravel driveway and even the lawn. Lestrade was waiting for them, and by the grim, tight look on his face John knew it was going to be bad.

John was correct in his estimation. 

The body was unmoved, and the face would have been that of a handsome man in his sixties if half of it hadn’t been completely caved in. 

John didn’t bother to wait. He knelt next to the body and began examining. “He was alive when this was done. There are defensive wounds and … there is hemorrhaging in the eyes. The victim was a strong man who had recently lost a lot of weight. From the various needle marks on both his hands, I’d say the weight loss was due to health problems.”

“How can you tell about the weight?” Lestrade asked.

“Belt buckle,” John answered, pointing to it. “It’s been tightened considerably, but there aren't worn lines to indicate the change has been long term. And the skin sagging around the midriff shows weight loss had occurred very recently.”

“Was it the Randall twins?” Sherlock asked.

“The victim couldn’t identify them but the description he gave…”

Sherlock’s gaze turned even more piercing. “This man was alive?”

“No, his son. Adam. He walked in on the burglary. They beat him and tied him to the chair,” Lestrade explained, pointing to a regal settee that looked like it belonged in a Edwardian movie set. “His father came down to check on him and found Adam unconscious, trussed up…”

“The father thought his son was dead or wounded,” Sherlock finished. “He rushed the attackers in a fit of rage.”

“Which was when this entire mess went bloody.”

“This isn’t burglary,” John said. “This … this is what the Americans would call a home invasion.”

“Feels like it, yeah,” Lestrade said. “The twins are known for their violence, which is why I’m surprised the son is alive.”

“How is he?” John asked.

“Bloody, but he’s very strong bloke. Fit, like an Olympic athlete. I’m guessing that’s why he survived the beating.”

“Is he able to talk?”

“Yeah, but be careful,” Lestrade cautioned his friend. “From what I’ve been told he’s a sneeze away from a complete breakdown.”

“What is his name?” John asked.

“Doctor Adam Brackenstall.”

John’s reaction to the name earned both Sherlock and Greg’s attention.

“You know him,” Sherlock stated as his eyes danced over John’s face, categorizing every minute change.

“Only through reputation,” John said somberly. “The poor bastard was a victim of an attack three months ago. The thief koshed him on the head and sent him to the hospital. 

“Dr. Brackenstall is a damn good cardio-thoracic surgeon, one of the best in London. And trust me that’s a tough field to be in.”

“Yeah, Mycroft told me about that,” Greg said.

“Where is my brother?”

“He left right before you came,” Greg said. “And he was on a warpath. He knew both the father and the son.”

“So this is Sir Eustace Brackenstall?” John looked down at the body. “The man’s a legend in the medical field, Greg. He basically pioneered viral studies in England during the seventies. Made a fortune too, if I remember right.”

“TE is the company’s name. And it remains one of the world’s leading research labs for viral engineering,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “His presence will definitely be missed.”

“Well, whoever did this is going to prison and for a damn long time,” Greg muttered. “If your brother doesn’t get to them first.”

“The Randall Gang will rue this day,” Sherlock said. He glanced around and added, “They’ve taken some silver.”

John looked at the display table where, indeed, the setting of the dust revealed several picture frames have been taken. “How many houses have they hit?”

“Nine, including this one, and they are not afraid to use violence,” Greg said. “But I’m surprised they killed Sir Eustace.”

“Maybe the father gave them no choice,” John said. “I can only imagine what his reaction was, finding his son tied to a chair, bleeding.”

Sherlock looked at the large pool of blood around the settee and nodded. “Indeed, a man whose ferocious will is well documented ... it is hardly surprising he would react violently to seeing his only child in such distress.”

Lestrade pointed them to a set of back stairs that would take them to the only witness to what was a bloodbath inside a fortress of a house.

* * *

Sherlock rushed up the steps and made a sharp right, following the noises emanating from the end of the hallway.

Donovan saw him approach but to Sherlock’s surprise did not spit out a single scathing remark. Instead, she raised her hand to stop him. Then, to his greater surprise, she made him wait until John joined them.

“I know,” John whispered without hesitation. “I know what happened to him.”

“Okay,” Donovan said with a small sigh of relief. “So, easy, yeah?”

“I promise,” John said and entered the room.

Sherlock was right behind him so it was a near thing that he didn’t collide with John. Sherlock frowned and was about to make a cutting remark when he heard John’s sharp intake of breath.

Sherlock looked up at the tableau in front of them and he, too, was struck to silence.

Dr. Adam Brackenstall was huddled tightly into a large armchair, as if fearing it would be yanked out from under him if he even thought about getting comfortable. 

_Lestrade wasn’t exaggerating when he said the man was built like an Olympic athlete. In fact, he looks like he could race the 2000m single scull without hesitation._

Sherlock knew, clinically, that he was considered an attractive man. However, he was also smart enough to realize ordinary people would consider his looks to be an acquired taste.

The man in front of him would be considered godlike in any western society. He was tall, probably had an inch or even more on Sherlock. And while Sherlock was thin, made to look thinner thanks to his broad shoulders, this man’s girth was perfectly proportionate to his height. And where Sherlock was pale, this man was golden from head to toe. Wheat blond hair, straight as needles, was closely cropped to the skull, but the bangs were long enough to curtain over the face.

Skin was also tanned but due to athletic efforts and not because of a weekly visit to a local sun salon. Hands were large, fingers were long, and like any surgeon, there was an artistic bent to them. 

Dr. Brackenstall, sensing he was being studied, looked up.

 _Even his eyes are gold_ , Sherlock noted with interest. _Not brown or blue, as his coloring would suggest. Curious._

“Who are you?” A woman who was sitting next to Brackenstall demanded waspishly.

“I am Dr. Watson, this is…”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Dr. Brackenstall said in a hoarse voice. “Mycroft told me you’d come. This is Mrs. Wright. She is the housekeeper.”

The woman studied them both before giving a sharp nod. “I’ll get us some tea. Don’t move from the chair, Adam. Your head’s probably still ringing like the bells of St. Mary.”

“Did someone take a look at your injuries?” John gently asked as a drop of blood oozed down a trail on Brackenstall’s neck.

“No,” was the chagrined answer. “I’m afraid I wasn’t … I might have lashed out and punched a medic.”

“At least you didn’t bite,” John said succinctly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It was a warning.” He paused then added, “I was also drugged.”

Adam’s smile was feeble but genuine. “I’m done panicking now. So, if you want to take a look, Dr. Watson…”

“Of course,” John said as he bustled about, grabbing the emergency bag probably left in haste by the injured medic.

Sherlock impatiently waited as John began examining Brackenstall with clinical if also gentle hands. He wondered if he’d imagined John’s surprising reaction to the victim’s looks.

Sherlock had continuously laboured under the idea that he had little to no chance of earning more than just John’s friendship. And since he had zero experience in the arena of romance, Sherlock was at a standstill on how to develop the current relationship he had with John into a more romantic one.

Sherlock took a cursory glance at the two men and froze. It was Brackenstall who was studying John with something akin to awe. Sherlock blinked, as that look had been directed at him many times but rarely, if ever, towards John.

“I heard about you,” Brackenstall said as John sealed the wounds in his right knuckles with butterfly plaster.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” John said with humour in his tone.

Brackenstall smiled a little. “Your dealing with Dr. Rierdan is still bandied about; you’re a legend at Bart's, to tell the truth.”

John’s soft laughter was filled with warmth and embarrassment. “The bastard deserved it.”

“Oh, nobody would disagree with you there,” Brackenstall said easily. “I met him once at a charity gala. That was more than enough for me.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t thinking much at the time, actually. Just that after his little misogynistic rant, the only sane response was to … chin the tosser.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “You hit a doctor?”

“One of the head of the department at Bart’s while I attended,” John elaborated. “The bastard tore down a female student in front of the entire class because she wore trousers and not a skirt. It was vicious. You’d probably taken a swing too if you were there.”

“Oh dear,” Sherlock said. “How did the paragon of academic virtue take it?”

“Not well. He had to have his nose set,” John answered. “I got off lightly, though. The Board got a wind of why it happened, and they were too embarrassed to do anything but bury the entire mess.

“Didn’t bother anyone at RAMC when they heard about it, either.”

“While Rierdan was retired by the end of the academic year,” Brackenstall added. 

John gently lifted Brackenstall’s chin and winced when he saw the massive discoloration. “You got kneed?”

“I don’t remember. And I’m in too much pain to actually categorize the wounds.”

“Three of your right ribs are definitely fractured, and there’s a healthy bruise blooming over your left kidney, so I seriously suggest a hospital visit. It would be wise to ensure it hasn’t been seriously damaged.”

Brackenstall sighed. “Damn, and damn.”

“Do you need help…” John stopped talking as he watched the victim flinch while trying to stand. “Yeah, stupid question. You definitely need help.”

“I don’t want the gurney,” Brackenstall insisted. “The press will want the bloodiest pictures possible, and I’d rather not have it be me carted off. There is so much deal with as it is, and the last thing anyone needs is to have the press make false connections between my attack and … tonight.”

“Come on then,” John said, gently swinging his left arm around the man’s waist, careful to avoid the ribs.

Sherlock didn’t have a chance to help as Brackenstall wrapped both his arms around John’s sturdy shoulders. He waited for John to stiffen a little, a familiar signal revealing his dislike of strangers touching him.

Sherlock waited in vain.

A sharp thought pierced through Sherlock’s confusion as he trailed behind the two men. John wasn’t pulling away ever so slightly; wasn’t putting a polite distance between his short body and that of Brackenstall’s formidable mass.

And there wasn’t any discomfort shown in those taut shoulders because John was completely at ease with Brackenstall’s physical proximity.

Sherlock felt a coldness squeeze everything inside his chest as he continued to study the two men making their way to the back of the floor where a small elevator had been installed.

Brackenstall’s pallor had gotten steadily worse, and Sherlock could see the fine sheen of sweat dotting the man’s hairline when they exited the elevator.

“Are you sure you don’t want a gurney?” John asked.

“I still don’t want it,” Brackenstall took a deep breath, “but I’m going to need one.”

John installed the victim in the first chair they came across before rushing down the hallway to get help.

“If anyone give you a problem, tell them you have my permission to investigate my father’s murder.”

Sherlock bristled. “I have the Met’s permission. I believe that is sufficient.”

Brackenstall smiled a little. “That will get you through the door, Mr. Holmes. But I doubt it will be enough to loosen tongues.”

Sherlock tipped his head in acknowledgement. “I wonder … do you have a girlfriend we could contact? So, you can have some company?”

Brackenstall startled for a moment, as if remembering something not quite pleasant. “No, not really. I did have a girlfriend, but we had a falling out after my attack.”

“Your father drank quite heavily, and then turned violent. Was that why you left him?”

Sherlock’s question was posed quietly but the damage was extreme. Brackenstall nearly slid off his chair.

The man took a few deep breaths. “How did you know?”

“The bruises on your wrists and forearms … they are older, and were done by a man with above quite a large handspan. I also believe that only you would allow your father to manhandle you in such a manner.”

“When he was sober, the man was a brilliant genius and a damn saint. But when he drank … my God, it was as if I was dealing with a completely different human being. He kept promising to stay sober, and he would for a while … then … it was always something: his research, his work, his health. It was a bloody mess.”

“Your mother?”

“She left him years ago, when I was three. I went with her back to Melbourne where she was raised. She died when I was sixteen. My father paid for me to be educated in England. We met up frequently and kept in touch when I returned to Australia.”

“Then his health started failing because of his drinking.”

Brackenstall’s nod was bone-weary. “A year ago I got a call from him, pleading for me to move back to London. I agreed. I took a job at Wellington and divided my time between London and my father.”

Sherlock wanted to delve further into the family dynamics, but the approaching footfall told him to keep quiet. He knew John wouldn’t appreciate him grilling a brutalized victim.

The female medic was rightfully cautious around Brackenstall if the spectacular bruise on her partner’s right cheek was anything to go by. They were thoroughly professional though in handling their attacker, and Brackenstall was rushed away from the scene.

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked.

“I think the poor bastard needs to go back to Australia,” John said softly. “England hasn’t been doing him any favours.”

Sherlock smirked. “No, we haven’t. It’s curious though, is it not?”

“What’s curious?”

“Mycroft’s interest,” Sherlock answered. “You have to wonder if the murder wasn’t something so mundane as a robbery gone wrong.”

John took a deep breath. “Lestrade is not going to be happy with us, is he?”

“Anyone who willingly associates with Mycroft is far from innocent. I think it would serve us well to find out what the victim was doing before he was killed.”

“I’m guessing his idea of retirement is a wee bit different than mine.”

“Men like Mycroft don’t retire.”

“So, Brackenstall might have not retired, either?”

“We should find his office before Anderson and his brounies make a mess of it all.”

* * *

Brackenstall’s office was a study of chaos in spite of wall-to-wall bookshelves and file cabinets standing like soldiers around the desk. And since the man was well over six feet, his furniture reflected its owner’s height and girth. 

“Jesus, this is bigger than my bed,” John noted as he sat on the ergonomic chair that engulfed his slim frame.

Sherlock opened the laptop, powered it up but got nothing. He typed in command lines but the screen remained stubbornly black.

“Mycroft’s people have been here,” Sherlock stated sourly and snapped the lid shut.

“So, they left nothing?”

Sherlock took a swift look around before a triumphant smile appeared. He rushed over to a wall of bookshelves and began browsing through them.

“Wouldn’t they have gone through these?”

“A visual check followed by a digital sweep, perhaps,” Sherlock said. “But they wouldn’t have gone through every single…”

He stopped and delicately pulled out an old copy of _On the Origins of Species_.

John examined the book. “That looks like…”

“First edition,” Sherlock said. He opened the book, revealing a backup drive nestled into a tiny hole carved into the body of the book. The hole itself was lined with a type of metal that John was unfamiliar with but made Sherlock smile in admiration.

“Bloody hell,” John muttered, impressed by the subterfuge.

Sherlock pocketed it and put the book back into its place. 

“So, we can’t rule out attempted retrieval masked as robbery gone wrong,” John said.

“Ahh, yes, but who was the one retrieving? Was it a rival company whose board is bent on ensuring the quarterly profit margins? Perhaps an irate or overly curious intelligence agency?”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” John said. “Why would they have let the son live? He’s a witness.”

“But a terrible one,” Sherlock said. “Plebian burglars would hardly kill a person in cold blood after killing another out of necessity. Remember, they tied down Dr. Brackenstall, which suggests they weren’t planning to do further damage.”

“What if they meant to kill the father?” John offered. “Just the father?”

Sherlock turned to face John. “So, an assassination, not a retrieval as you so elegantly put it.”

“Houses in this area have been burgled. Pretty bloody good reason to make it look at such.”

“I have to get the list of the what’s been stolen,” Sherlock said. “It would make sense that the robbers would try to fence it if at all possible. Killers would probably lose the items the first chance they get.”

“That makes sense: wouldn’t want anything to tie them to the crime scene.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. “John, could you make some calls and find out about the attack on Dr. Brackenstall?”

“No need, it’s been the talk of town since it’s happened,” John said.

Sherlock sat down on a sumptuous chair and settled into his listening pose. “Begin.”

“Adam was coming off a shift. He was done with his rotation but had to stay because of some paperwork snafu. It was near ten at night when the files were sorted out. Everyone, including security, saw him leave the building. So, the attack must have happened right as he got to his car.”

“How do they know that?”

“Because his keys were found right next to it. He was bashed in the back of the head but managed to make it almost halfway down the carpark before collapsing. There was cranial trauma but not bad enough to warrant surgical procedure. He was put on leave by the hospital, but they expect him back by the end of the year.”

“What was stolen?”

“A Patek Philippe and his wallet. The wallet was found few blocks away with only the cash taken. I believe the watch is still missing.”

“What of the watch?”

“It was a gift from his mother before she died of cancer. From what I hear it was valued at nearly two hundred thousand pounds. So, yeah, people still talk about it. That and Brackenstall having his head caved in and wandering around the carpark, bleeding.”

Sherlock’s brows rose. “A considerable gift, indeed, for a sixteen-year-old boy.”

“And wandering around the carpark bleeding?” John prompted dryly.

“Terrible, terrible.”

John gave a wry smile and shook his head. Sherlock noted the humour in his friend’s grimace and gave a mental sigh of relief.

Sherlock also noted John calling Dr. Brackenstall by his first name after knowing the man for less than ten minutes. However, that in it of itself wasn’t very telling. After all, he’d called Stamford by his first name after meeting him well over a decade since their acquaintance had ended.

But there was the touching, and voluntary one at that. John was a good man, trustworthy, solid, and caring. However, he came from a stock of hard workers who didn’t put much into the ‘touchy-feely’ side of human nature. So, whenever John initiated contact, it was imperative that Sherlock pay attention.

And, to put it bluntly, Dr. Adam Brackenstall was a man who would attract a great deal of attention. So much that even John wasn’t immune to the man’s charms. 

Sherlock should be elated by this revelation. John’s declaration of ‘not gay’ was something he’d taken at face value, especially when analyzing John’s constant parade of female partners. But John was obviously susceptible to male charms when presented with a potent specimen. 

Sherlock wondered then if it the lack of attraction to him was because of his looks. Or perhaps the bits of corpses he insisted keeping in 221b. Maybe it…

“Sherlock, for the love of God, leave your Mind Palace!”

John’s order was enough to snap Sherlock’s attention to their current situation.

“So, present and accounted for, then?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, sorry. I was considering the evidence.”

“I got that,” John said. “Do you need more time here or can we go?”

“I saw what I needed to see.”

The private car that brought them was idling at the edge of the lawn. The driver looked bored but to the vigilant eye, it was obvious his relaxed posture was but a sham. 

Sherlock noted the open jacket, and that only one hand held the e-reader which was switched off, while the other was on a sleek phone: a single finger on the emergency trigger, without doubt.

The drive was uneventful until they were outside the property. They hadn’t traveled a mile from the estate when Sherlock spotted something glistening in the moonlight.

“Stop!” he ordered and jumped out even before the car had come to a halt.

Ignoring the swearing resonating inside the car, Sherlock rushed to the small manmade lake and looked around.

“A bit late for a lovely moonlight walk, don’t you think?” John asked as he joined his friend.

Sherlock blushed, grateful that the darkness hid the color on his face. “I needed to see,” he said calmly.

John stared at the Monet-like vista in front of them. “Yeah, okay. Lake, some pretty boats that would capsize the moment the wind got stroppy. I’m guessing the local snobs had this made to spend some charming time under the sun?”

“That was the plan, but it has since become a mosquito-infested swamp,” Sherlock drawled. “I don’t know why people insist on building such nonsense!”

“I’m guessing there are few of these spread out over your home?”

Sherlock snorted. “Four. Mummy had to drain all of them. One was stocked to be a fishing spot, but thanks to a decade of polluted runoff, it became a stinking morass instead.”

John laughed softly. “So, I’m guessing your home wasn’t Pemberley.”

“Considering the number of lunatics who had haunted the halls, I’d go with Du Maurier instead of Austen.”

With that riposte, Sherlock returned to the car with John right behind him. The driver gave them a hard look before starting up the car once more, and this time engaging in the automatic locks so his passengers wouldn’t get the opportunity to escape.

* * *

Sherlock turned off his laptop and sighed.

“Nothing unusual?” John asked.

“Oh, there’s everything unusual if we’re talking about the dead man,” Sherlock answered. “But nothing interesting regarding the son.”

“Why are you researching Adam?” 

Noting John’s sharp tone, Sherlock answered just as sharply, “Because he is the sole heir to a vast estate, millions of pounds held in trust, and what seemed to be the controlling shares in TE.”

“Still doesn’t tell me why you’re suspicious of him.”

Sherlock gaped at his friend. “I beg your pardon?”

“If he wanted his father dead, Adam would have procured medication that wouldn’t leave any trace. After all, his father was ill so nobody would suspect if his heart gave out one night. Or, if he wanted his father’s head bashed in, Adam would hardly be present. Verisimilitude is required, but having your kidneys kicked in along with few ribs is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Sherlock blinked. Once again, John managed to take his breath away. “Yes, there is that.”

“So, if we can agree a third party wanted the Brackenstall men dead, the question is did they want both men dead, or just the father? And if the father: why? Like we talked about earlier – could be his work for the private sector or for the government.

“Either way, we better brace ourselves because there’s going to be a storm coming our way.”

“Speaking of storms…” Sherlock uttered when he heard his brother’s footsteps on the stairs.

Mycroft looked immaculate, as always. But there were telltale signs that he wasn’t as collected as he usually was.

“What have you learned?” Mycroft asked without preamble.

John, noting the distress in Mycroft’s smooth tone, went to the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock often wondered what John did during his military service whenever things got difficult. Did John actually bring tea with him? Instead of the usual paraphernalia of pornography and books, John had boxes and boxes of tea crammed into his duffel…

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock sighed. Really, his obsession for his friend was getting out of control. “We were just discussing that, actually.”

Mycroft sat in John’s armchair, making Sherlock bristle a little in annoyance. “So, what have you found?”

“The killers were professional, masquerading as the Randall Gang. I’ve texted Lestrade to drag that dreary little pond by Oakweld. I have no doubt they will find the stolen goods.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Of course, how could I have missed it?”

Sherlock felt his heart slam against his chest. Mycroft missed it? How could he have possibly missed such an obvious clue? He looked up to see John gaping at them, obviously as shocked as Sherlock by Mycroft’s confession.

“Mycroft, exactly what did Brackenstall do for you?”

“Not me,” Mycroft answered. “As you know he was brilliant virologist. Publicly, he had pioneered viral studies and gene sequencing. Privately, he performed the admirable duty of helping us create vaccines.”

“Wait a minute,” John said as he joined them, tea all but forgotten. “What kind of vaccines are we talking about here?”

“Some of them you yourself had administered to your fellow soldiers, especially in Iraq, the first conflagration.”

John looked at Sherlock. “There was a month where we had to get shots almost every week … I was told they were boosters.”

“They weren’t,” Mycroft informed them. “A great number of viruses are naturally sequenced. However, some that have surfaced in the general population have been the unfortunate side effects of misbegotten experiments by petty dictators. “

“Of course, none of that could be said because then we would have mass panic and governments could fall,” Sherlock added. 

“Bloody hell, so Brackenstall supplied you with vaccines? Quietly? How is that possible? The production of such quantities would require enormous work!”

“It can be done,” Sherlock said. “If the process is automated.”

John leaned back on the mantel, pale and shaken. “What was he dying of, Mycroft?”

“He was an alcoholic,” Mycroft answered. “His liver was failing. Actually, everything was slowly shutting down. When he had asked his son to move to England, Eustace had already finalized his will.”

“When was he diagnosed?”

“Two weeks before he contacted Adam. He immediately resigned from his post but you must understand, a great deal of work still had to be done.”

“The pressure couldn’t have helped him,” John said. “No wonder he wanted Adam near.”

“Yes, Eustace was convinced his son could help him, but it was a false hope. Adam is brilliant in his own way, but nowhere the caliber of his father. And their studies are vastly different.”

“The attack on Adam: could that have been to further damage his father’s health?” John asked. “It would be easy to tip a sick man’s health further into the danger zone if his son nearly died.”

“We are aware, so we had Adam under surveillance the moment he landed in Heathrow,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock leaned forward. “And yet you are unaware of his attacker?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, the perpetrator managed to escape without getting caught by any of the cameras or the agent assigned to Adam.”

“That is most singular,” Sherlock said.

“It is,” Mycroft agreed. “Sherlock, I must ask you to tread carefully with Adam. He is unaware of the true nature of his father’s work or his involvement with the government. It would be safer for him in the end if he were to believe his father had amassed powerful friends due to his title and his prestige.

“If he were to dig any further, I fear other parties might become involved. And you must know Brackenstall had gained notable enemies over the years.”

“I thought as much,” Sherlock said. “We will endeavour to keep Adam away from that part of his father’s life.”

“The last thing that man needs is another shock,” John said, shaking his head. “It’s bad enough he’s been beaten black and blue.”

With that John returned to the kitchen to finish making tea. Mycroft studied the doctor with keen interest before looking at his brother.

“Adam?” Mycroft said. “He’s already in such friendly terms with the man?”

Sherlock managed not to bristle at the implication of his brother’s question. “They are both in the medical profession, and John was already aware of the brutal attack on Dr. Brackenstall. So, his sympathy for the victim was well developed even before we got to Oakweld.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft said. He hummed under his breath for a moment and then stood up. “It’s good then, that Dr. Watson has taken an interest in Adam’s wellbeing. It’s time that poor boy had someone looking after him after all he had gone through.”

“Did you know your esteemed colleague was beating his son during his alcoholic rages?”

Mycroft sat back into the armchair. “No, I didn’t. Damn and damn. Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded. “I saw the bruises myself. Did he treat his former wife in such brutal fashion?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because if his wife left him over thirty years ago. Then it stands to reason there were other women populating his life since then. And one of them might have had a good reason to see his head caved in.”

“But they would have known he was dying, Sherlock.”

“Revenge doesn’t come with an expiration date,” Sherlock said. 

“I have not heard of it,” Mycroft said. “But there was some talk of his behaviour regarding Mary, his wife. She was a stunning woman. You only have to look at the son to know where he had inherited those looks. And Brackenstall was a very possessive man.”

“Spare me the excuses,” Sherlock said. “Any man who mistreats his wife because his ego is so fragile deserves to have no wife, much less children.”

“And yet, he did. As they often do.” Once more Mycroft stood up and this time left without saying anything else.

“You heard everything?” Sherlock asked.

“I did,” John answered as he exited the kitchen holding two mugs. He handed one over to Sherlock. “Adam really needs to leave England.”

Sherlock smiled as he took sip of the perfectly-prepared tea. Leave it to John to find a pragmatic answer to a very difficult conundrum.


	3. Traralgon

Sherlock startled awake, the nightmare’s claws losing their hold as the sounds of Baker Street penetrated the dreamer’s senses. With a vicious twist, Sherlock tossed aside his duvet, pulling on his favorite dressing gown while grumbling about wasting valuable hours doing something as useless as sleeping, especially in the middle of a case. He caught a glimpse of his reflection and promptly went to the bathroom. His hair looked like a memory of elephants had stampeded through one side, leaving it flat as Mycroft’s sense of humour, while the other seemed to be writhing as if it were alive.

He wasn’t usually so vain at first light, but the memory of godlike Brackenstall was still fresh, not to mention John’s open appreciation of the man’s looks.

_But it wasn’t relegated to just his physical form,_ Sherlock concluded sourly as he brushed his teeth. _Brackenstall has excelled at every occasion. His reputation is unimpeachable. He is also well liked by his peers. Even Mycroft has respect for Adam Brackenstall, and it was given freely of Sir Eustace’s influence._

After making sure he looked presentable, Sherlock wended his way to the sitting room, hoping John was already awake and making tea.

No such luck. So, he opted for second best and faced John’s empty armchair.

“Where is his girlfriend?” Sherlock began without any preamble. “Paramour? Fiancée? A man like Dr. Brackenstall would have been snapped up by the Best and the Brightest. Every It Girl in London would have been more than eager to darken his doorsteps, and his father would have loved to hold a grandchild before dying. 

“So, where is she? Brackenstall wouldn’t spare a minute of his time on empty-headed beauties. So, a woman worthy of his regard: a woman who can hold herself not only against his peers but also his father.

“Is there such a woman? And if there is, where is she?”

Sherlock swirled around and sat down on his leather chair, still facing John’s. “Or, is there a man? Hmmm ... that is a possibility. A spurned lover turns violent. How pedestrian. It would be better if it were a woman. At least that adds some zest. But even in his weakened condition, it would have taken a strong woman to subdue Lord Brackenstall. And the man was in a towering rage, if one were to take account of the twisted hate on his face.

“And then there is that: hate. The man was burning with hate the moment of his death. Would his son’s endangerment trigger such an emotional response? After all, he seemed to have beaten Adam with some regularity since Dr. Brackenstall has moved to London.”

“I think we should look into that personal angle,” John said from the doorway. 

Sherlock looked up, surprised to see his friend. “How long were you standing there?”

“I woke up when I heard you thunder into the bathroom. Are you all right?”

Sherlock shrugged, mentally trying to come up with a plausible answer. “I thought I had a mosquito bite on my face from last night.”

It took a moment for John’s to digest Sherlock’s manufactured excuse. “So, tea?” was what he finally said.

Sherlock nodded regally and sat back. “You are considering the personal angle, then?”

“Yes, especially since Lestrade called me. He said they dragged that damn pond and found the stolen goods.”

“Why didn’t he call me?”

“Because you weren’t answering your phone?”

Sherlock immediately tossed the room in search of his phone and found it jammed between books he’d been reading last night. The battery was dead.

“Damn and damn,” Sherlock snarled and plugged it in to charge. He discovered he’d missed two texts from Mycroft, all concerning the stolen silver. And a missed call, indicating Lestrade had been trying to contact him.

John teetered out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea. He handed one over with a power bar and a banana he pulled out of his robe pockets.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but dutifully ate the meal while scrolling down various news feeds on his laptop. He heard John putter about the kitchen, no doubt making toast and scrambled eggs if the sound was anything to go by. No wonder John gave him the banana. Sherlock loathed scrambled eggs.

He called Lestrade as soon as he finished his repast. Greg sounded exhausted, not surprising when the victims were well known and respected members with connections all the way to the Palace.

“I can safely assume nothing of importance was found in the pond?”

“Besides the hordes of leeches to fuel my nightmare for years to come? Nothing.”

“Oh?” Sherlock perked up right away. “Did you find them on the grass or in the pond?”

“Wait a minute,” Lestrade said, his voice deathly cold. “These fuckers can live outside the water?”

“Well, of course. They eat snails.”

Lestrade made a distressing noise and said, “Make that two decades of nightmares. But yeah, there isn’t much. Not surprising since the entire bag was submerged in water and a polluted one at that.”

“And the body?”

“Autopsy revealed about what we suspected. Lord Brackenstall died from the blow to the head. Also, the man’s liver was hard enough to use as a doorjamb. His kidneys were failing too. From what Molly said…”

“Oh, she’s done? I’ll go visit her.”

“Hold on…”

Sherlock never did hear the end of the sentence since he ended the call.

“What now?” John asked companionably from the kitchen.

“Barts.”

* * *

Molly mentally sighed even as her heart sped up when she heard Sherlock’s familiar footsteps followed by John’s more measured ones. 

“Where is the body? And the report?” Sherlock demanded the moment he entered the room.

“Good morning, Molly. I hope everything is well. And thank you for letting us invade your space, waste your time, and generally commandeering your person like a privileged Roman.”

With the saucy apology, John handed over a cup of coffee along with a buttery from Speedy’s.

Not for the first time Molly wondered why in bloody hell she couldn’t have fixated on John instead of the lanky god standing next to him. As if reading her mind John gave a sympathetic smile before joining Sherlock who began gleefully delving into Lord Brackenstall’s corpse. 

Watching Sherlock made Molly lose appetite, forcing her to put away the roll. The coffee, however, stayed firmly planted in her grasp. She joined the conversation just in time to see something on the body snag Sherlock’s attention.

“What is this discoloration?” Sherlock pointed at the left temple: the side that wasn’t completely ruined.

“A bruise,” John said, peering at the skin. “It’s positioned right over the temple. Maybe he was hit by something else before the poker?”

“So he was initially incapacitated,” Sherlock peered closer. “Which definitely makes this murder.”

“Hold on, hold on,” John said excitedly. He turned to look at Molly with burning eyes. “Can you come here for a moment? I need to see something.”

When she came within arm’s reach John took her left hand and formed a fist. He then placed it right over the bruise. It was a near perfect match in size and pattern.

“Oh my,” Molly whispered. 

“A woman’s fist, in all likelihood,” John said, his voice echoing with reluctant admiration. “Could be a man if he has really small hands.”

“No,” Sherlock added. “This band of discoloration right here? It’s a ring. Too thin to belong to a man.”

“A woman did this?” Molly asked. Not that she was shocked that a woman was capable of violence, but to land a blow on the head meant close quarter fighting.

“Not just any woman,” Sherlock said. “A strong one and extremely determined. She was facing Brackenstall when she attacked. And the force of a single punch was enough to overwhelm him to the point that she was able to grab the poker from the fireplace and swing just once, but with enough force to cave in his skull.”

After looking at the wound and skimming through Molly’s report, John stated, “He was dead before he hit the floor.”

“Well, that would make sense in a sad sort of way,” Molly said.

“Why?” Sherlock peered at her with his icy gaze.

“The man had been treated for numerous STDs. The blood panel was a cocktail of medications. There was even meth in his system.”

John was aghast. “And this man was in charge of an internationally-renown research lab?”

“The medication for STDs were long term, but the drug usage wasn’t,” Molly pulled out another chart and handed it over to John. “I’d say he started in the last six months.”

“I can’t see how Adam could not know about this,” John said as he perused the data. “Unless Brackenstall’s people all somehow managed to keep him in the dark.”

“So, the ill treatment Adam was receiving was motivated by more than just alcohol,” Sherlock said darkly. “And meth … not to mention mixed with more legitimate medications would have made the father completely unpredictable.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” John asked softly.

“No, and to tell the truth: neither do I.”

* * *

Adam Brackenstall was found in one of the gardens, posed much like a lion at rest as the morning light dappled on his hair. He seemed peaceful but Sherlock could see the laboured breathing underneath the façade of calm, and how his hands shook gently even as he opened another folder.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said, noting John already maneuvering to take the chair closest to Brackenstall.

“Good morning,” Adam said, raising his face towards the visitors.

Sherlock was shocked to notice the amount of contusions on his face and neck. 

“I knew there would be some bruising, but nothing this bad! Did you get those looked at?” John asked, his eyes bouncing from bruise to gash to bruise. 

“Yes, they look vicious but no lasting damage done,” Adam answered. “My ribs were fractured but not too badly.”

“And the kidney?”

Adam shrugged. “Only time will tell.”

Sherlock pulled out the blood work he’d stolen from the morgue and asked, “Did you know about these?”

Adam didn’t bother to take them. He took a glance at the top four lines and looked away. “Yes, I suspected as much.”

“So, alcohol wasn’t your father’s only vice?” John gently asked.

“No, it was for a long time,” Adam answered, his eyes never wavering from John’s sympathetic face. “My father’s obsessive personality wouldn’t allow him to develop a weakness, any weakness that would interfere with his work. My mother was the most notable exception, and even she didn’t fare well.”

“Because your father thought she somehow got in the way of his work?” John prompted.

Sherlock paled a little at John's comment but kept silent.

“Yes. When he married my mother he didn’t realize how strong willed she was. For all her genteel upbringing, my mother had a personality that demanded attention. She was also used to a level of freedom that women in her time didn’t ask for. Naturally, she chafed at being deposited here and then abandoned while my father worked in London.

“Even before I was born, my mother realized that should we stay, I would be raised in his likeness. She managed to escape his clutches but it took her two years of careful planning. And it was a damn miracle that she managed to take me with her.”

“I wonder then, why did you come back?” Sherlock asked. 

“Because he was a slave to his addictions, be it work or alcohol. And in the last year, various drugs to alleviate his natural tendency to obsess about one thing after another. You have to understand: my father needed his work. It was everything. As long as he had it, he was able to curb himself.

“But after he resigned, things fell apart, and fell apart quickly. It wasn’t just his pleading that convinced me to return, Mrs. Wright also called me. She was terrified he would do something stupid and end up in a prison hospital.”

“And he was your father,” John added. “The only family you had left.”

“Exactly,” Adam said. And for a moment two men commiserated with each other perfectly.

Sherlock, on the other hand, felt his unease grow as the conversation marched on. It wasn’t Adam Brackenstall he was identifying with, but the father whose manic energy turned dark and violent without some outlet. 

“He was bearable when sober, which became less and less,” Adam continued. “But the man was dying. He had less than a year to live, and I estimated he’d be hospitalized ten to twelve weeks before that. I couldn’t let him die alone and abandoned. He might not have been a good father, and most certainly was a terrible husband. But he was also a genius whose work saved millions of lives. 

“He deserved to have someone stand next to him as he faded away.”

“And after?” John asked. “Would you have stayed in England?”

“No,” Adam said with finality. “I was planning to return to Melbourne as soon as possible. My father’s attorneys would have handled the estate and save for some legacies from my grandfather, I was planning to donate everything to various charities my mother supported. It seemed fitting.”

“Would your father have allowed that?” Sherlock was curious.

“It was their mutual interest in English medical charities that drew them together in the first place,” Adam answered. “I think he wouldn’t have minded. In a sad, twisted way, he missed her. He never married again, and from what I know none of his relationships thereafter were serious.”

Sherlock once again proffered the medical report. And this time Adam took it. He read the file with hesitation, and by the end his face had become even grimmer.

“My God, and I thought he had some common sense when it came to diseases.”

“How could a medical man like your father be so … careless?” John asked as he took the file.

“Because he thought he was a god, or perhaps even God. My father was convinced he was invincible. His upbringing, his looks, money, and power – all fed that delusion. Fortunately for him, his brilliance allowed him to hold onto his beliefs until it, too, failed him. As for these indiscretions – I’m guessing he either had a binge, which is something he’d do on occasion, or he had a mistress. But if he did, he kept quiet about it. I never knew him to be in a serious relationship after the divorce.”

“If there was a mistress, how would your father have reacted when he was told?” Sherlock prodded.

“Violently and decisively,” Adam answered. “The poor woman. I shudder to think what his retribution was.”

“Do you know if your father kept some kind of personal diary?” John asked. “Something he’d keep details of his daily going-ons?”

Adam shook his head. “Never. Kidnapping was a real threat for someone like him. Both my mother and I never kept such records either. And we varied our routines daily, even after leaving him. When you have someone like my father as family, all sorts of characters come to play. And quite a few of them are horrifying.”

“Besides my inscrutable brother, is there anyone else who is privy to your family’s personal matters?”

Adam shook his head. “No, my father’s social circles didn’t coincide with mine, especially since my job didn’t allow me to have much, and that was before I left Melbourne.”

Adam’s voice was tinged with fatigue and regret. But there was a layer of assuredness that had been missing previously and was now very much present in the man. 

It took Sherlock a moment to realize Adam was lying. Somehow between last night and this morning, someone had managed to talk to him, alleviated his fears, and coached him. And well enough to almost fool the likes of Sherlock Holmes.

“Where is your dog, by the way?” John asked.

Sherlock was startled by the non sequitur but kept quiet when he saw how wrong-footed Adam was.

“Dog?” the man echoed dumbly.

“Yes, your bracelet – isn’t that a dog collar?”

Adam gave a startled laugh. “Oh, no, it isn’t. It’s a sailor’s bracelet. The tag’s the name of the boat I helped crew back years ago while I still had some free time.”

“Sorry,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“It’s harmless enough of a mistake, especially for someone who isn’t familiar with the sailing culture.”

“What does the pendant say?” Sherlock asked negligently.

Here, Adam’s demeanor changed completely. The friendliness he’d displayed only moments before completely vanished even as he stiffly answered, “ _Traralgon_.”

“That’s an unusual name for a boat,” John said, clearly sensing the sudden strain and wishing to dispel it.

Adam tipped his head and winced, rubbing his temple. “It is. I’m sorry, but I think I’m not going to last very long what with all this work and my lack of common sense in taking my medication.”

“Doctors do make the worst patients,” John agreed amiably, standing up. “Hope you recover soon. Call us if you need anything.”

Instead of leaving, Sherlock took a quick detour to the dining room where the murder had occurred. He marched to and fro the entire length of the room and was closely studying the drapes when Mrs. Wright harrumphed from the doorway.

John gave an apologetic smile and dragged Sherlock with him. The irritated detective managed to heroically refrain from asking any questions until they were safely ensconced in Baker Street.

“You knew that wasn’t a dog collar,” Sherlock prompted.

“I read the name while you were questioning Adam,” John said. “Traralgon is a city near Melbourne. It’s also close to the coast so yeah, the boat excuse rings true, but he was lying, Sherlock. I don’t know about what, though.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I think we’re barking up the wrong tree if we’re considering a woman driven by passion.”

“You think the woman was involved with Adam in some way.”

“Lord Brackenstall could have attracted a woman who could have done the murder, I guess. Bur can you see a socialite actually punching Eustace Brackenstall before smashing his head in?”

“A woman who was in love with Adam Brackenstall, then. Someone who couldn’t stand to see Adam treated so maliciously. Perhaps she was watching … or stumbled upon the father beating the son and had reacted.”

“And Adam is protecting her.” John sat down hard in his chair. “Jesus, Sherlock. We can’t let this woman hang for something anybody would have done.”

“If Mycroft finds out, he’ll most certainly demand some retribution for his friend’s death,” Sherlock concluded darkly. He pondered for a moment before tactfully asking. “How did you know about _Traralgon_?”

John’s grin was impish and innocent at the same time. “Three Continents: Australia was one of them.”

Sherlock made a rude noise, which was quickly dwarfed by his computer ringing like a buoy. He rushed over and read the screen with open glee.

“What is it?” John peered over his shoulder, frowning. “Looks like gibberish.”

“It’s the backup drive,” Sherlock said. “It’s been encrypted very efficiently but I’ve been able to decode a familiar name: Hardgroves, 14890b3214445.”

“That’s decrypted?” John said in a deadpan voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardgroves is a private bank, and one of their more discreet offerings is private security boxes in which it would take literally the Queen’s Papers to open without the owner’s expressed consent.”

“Damn. So how do we go about opening it?”

“Leave that to me.” Sherlock looked slyly at John. “Do you have a good suit?”

“Define good.”

* * *

John definitely looked good in the blue suit, and unlike Mycroft – the waistcoat was flattering on John’s frame. Of course, the gun holster that was nestled under the left arm also made some lovely accents on the cut of the jacket.

Not for the first time Sherlock lamented John’s unholy love of clothing that added twenty pounds to his waist, not to mention ten years to his face. With some smart suits and shirts, John had the ability to open any door within reach just by his military bearing and friendly demeanor.

Right now, though, John looked like he could chew metal bearings and spit out bullets, which was actually helpful since he was supposed to be Sherlock’s private bodyguard. Sherlock had donned the disguise of a wealthy barrister whose employers were even wealthier and possessed the kind of power that shaped countries.

His suit was bespoke, of course, as were his attaché case and shoes. But what had to sell the illusion was John who managed to look uncomfortable, a bit surly and lethal all at one go just by staring at the receptionist stationed at the lobby.

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock drawled. “My name is Jerome Cotillard. I represent the late Dr. Brackenstall.”

“You’re with Marcus and Beryl?”

“No,” Sherlock answered in a genteel tone though his eyes were steely. “That firm represents his estate. I represent Dr. Brackenstall. He might be deceased but until my duties to my client are discharged, I represent Dr. Brackenstall.”

The woman didn’t look at all flustered by Sherlock's icy demeanor. Instead, she handed him a tablet and said, “Please fill in the information.”

There were only two lines, but Sherlock knew it was imperative that he fill them in correctly. Otherwise, they’d be spending time at the Met and that would be the luckier scenario. The not-so-lucky one would entail some private time with Mycroft.

So, he typed in ‘14890b’ in the first line and ‘3214445’ in the second. The screen went black.

The door to the right slid open and the receptionist finally graced them with a smile. “The administrator will be with you shortly.”

They entered the hallway, got into a single elevator that didn’t reveal whether they were going up or down. When the door opened a pleasant looking man was waiting for them.

“The box is being retrieved. Would you like some refreshments?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, thank you.”

They were led to a small but well-appointed room with a single chair. John stood next to the door and loomed until the man left them. Within a minute another, equally non-descript person entered, deposited a metal case the size of a breadbox, and left without a word.

John gave a small sigh. “This is completely nerve wrecking. By the way, I saw something exactly like this in one of Bourne movies. And that ended in a bloody gunfight in an American embassy. So let’s hurry along, yeah?”

Sherlock hummed in agreement and opened the box to discover stacks of photos and a small wooden box. 

Sherlock carefully flipped through the pictures, noting the differences in clothing styles and haircuts.

“Are those of Adam?” John asked in horror. “He’s been stalking his son?”

“And ex-wife,” Sherlock added. “It seems the man never took his eyes off of them.”

“What did she have on the bastard that made him let go?”

“I think the answer to that question is stored in the drive,” Sherlock answered while opening the wooden box. When he saw its content Sherlock couldn’t stop a small gasp from escaping.

“Christ,” John said as he leaned closer to examine the watch whose face was covered in rusty flakes. “That’s Adam’s. That’s the Patek that was stolen when he was…”

“That was how the so-called mugger was so successful,” Sherlock said flatly. “It was Sir Eustace who set it up. He knew Adam’s security detail, and had very little trouble circumventing whatever protective measures there were.”

“What kind of a bastard would do something like that?”

“The kind who couldn’t relinquish control. The kind who would punish his son for the perceived transgressions of the mother.” Sherlock pulled out a picture that was only few years old at least. It was of Adam on a yacht, busy helping and not just lounging about. A short woman was standing next to him; the top of her head barely clearing his chest. She was obviously a seasoned sailor. The yacht was listing violently to the left but she was standing completely at ease and laughing with Adam who was hanging onto the guardrails.

It was a beautiful picture of Adam, completely at ease and happy. It was a picture of a woman in the environment she was born to inhabit. 

“Our sailor,” John whispered.

“The captain of the yacht: _Traralgon_.”

* * *

Sherlock was at a loss. He knew what must be done. The woman in question: Janet Crocker was most certainly the killer and should be handed over to Lestrade.

And yet he loathed doing just that. Captain Crocker had won various merit scholarships to earn her education; never got into an altercation without good cause and just as importantly, never lost one either. Then, she chose a profession in a business that did nearly everything possible to prevent women from achieving the rank of captain.

“Her record’s pretty much golden,” John said as he read the printouts. “Even Major Sholto would’ve adored her, and he was as hard as they come.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, not bothering to sound irritated that he had repeated those two words as they perused her records together.

“So, we have to figure out how to fool Mycroft, get Lestrade to let this case go, and somehow protect Adam and Captain Crocker until they’re safe.”

“And how do you plan to go about doing that?” Sherlock asked, exhausted and quite frankly irked that he was cast as Friar Laurence in a Romeo-and-Juliet type of love affair but with guns instead of poison.

“Well, since you fooled Mycroft into thinking Irene Adler was dead, this should be cakewalk for you.”

Sherlock tried his best not to hyperventilate. _Damn and fuck and shite. How did John know? How did he figure it out? Mycroft didn’t…_

“Sherlock, breathe!”

The detective snapped out of his panicked state and looked at John with wide, pleading eyes. “I wanted to tell you but I wasn’t…”

“It’s all right. I understand. I don’t know what was up between the two of you, and I’m not sure I wouldn’t have interfered because I think she’s a right menace. But it was obvious even to me that you two had a connection.”

“I wasn’t in love with her.”

“Right.”

“I wasn’t. She was my equal, John. The only mistake she made was listening to Moriarty.”

“Oh damn, that fucker was the reason she told the Palace about the photos.”

Sherlock nodded. “Moriarty told her what to do, knowing how it would turn out. What he didn’t plan on was her getting me involved.”

“He must have been furious when he found out about you and how it was panning out with the codes.”

“He put a price on her head.”

“So, either way she was a dead woman.” John rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, making him look like a tired child. “Christ, no wonder she was so desperate in the end.”

Sherlock smiled a little. He knew John was furious with the way Adler had treated everyone, but he had hoped his friend’s humanity would somehow make itself known. Sherlock was glad to see his hope was realized.

“Is she safe?”

“She is. Adler knows better than to play a game of that scale again. She told me she likes to bite but only when invited.”

John chuckled. “That, I can see.”

“Can you?”

John’s blush was hilarious. “Oh, shut it. She was gorgeous. And naked. And in our flat. She was also brilliant and charming. Did I mention naked?”

“Once, or twice. I distinctly remember you offering her a napkin to cover up her nudity, though.”

“One wonders where she would’ve used it. Because it wasn’t that big.”

The two men burst out laughing. 

“Damn, we needed that,” John said as he leaned back into the armchair. “What do you think happened?”

“I think we need to speak to Captain Crocker.”

“Just make sure I’m armed when we do, all right?”

“You’d shoot a woman?”

John’s pleasant façade crumbled as he answered, “Sherlock, I’ve killed more than a single woman. And before you ask: deliberately.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod before calling the number he’d gotten off of a website. “Captain, this is Sherlock Holmes. I need to speak with you immediately. I trust you don’t need any explanations as to why?”

* * *

The woman who entered the flat barely reached John’s shoulders and probably weighed at least two stones less. In fact, if it weren’t for her weathered face she could easily pass for a boy with her figure hidden under a bulky sweater, and jeans that were two sizes too big to be flattering.

She scanned the room, the two men who would decide her fate, but never showed any fear.

Sherlock immediately took a liking to her.

_A life at sea_ , he concluded. _Ready for sun or storm._

“I wondered how long it would take you,” Captain Crocker said as she sat down on the sofa. 

John wordlessly handed over a mug of coffee, which she took with a grateful, “thank you.”

“How did you meet Adam?” John asked.

“Through his mother. She was sponsoring the yacht I was crewing. It was just a weekend thing for me back then. My uncle was into that culture and got me hooked when he took me in for the holidays. Miss Fraser was probably the classiest woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve met quite a few in my life. She was also by far the kindest.”

“When did your relationship begin?” Sherlock asked. “It must have been passionate if you were willing to kill for him.”

Crocker laughed, a low sound that echoed wrongly in Sherlock’s bones. “And I thought you were a genius. Mr. Holmes, Adam and I aren’t lovers. We are friends, best of friends.”

Sherlock was taken back by her admission. “Surely … but…”

“Adam and I grew up together. And yes, you are half right in that I love Adam. But have you taken a good look at him? He can do so much better than someone like me. Adam deserves a woman … well, a woman like his mother. Someone who knows the ins and outs of high society and all their swells. I captain their boats in races and make sure their trophies look good in magazines. But let’s be honest: I’ll never grace their Christmas tables.

“And I don’t mind that. Their lifestyle doesn’t suit me much, either.”

“So, you killed for your best friend?” Sherlock prodded relentlessly.

“I killed to protect my best friend,” Crocker corrected gently. “Adam told his father he was returning to Australia by the end of the month. Adam had enough of the abuse and couldn’t take living in that hellhole anymore. The idiot also told his father that he was taking Mrs. Wright with him. The woman had suffered enough and Adam wasn’t going to leave her behind when he knew she’d be taking the brunt of his father’s rage.”

“And you just happened to be there?”

“No, I happened to be there because I wanted to talk to Adam about getting out of England without his father knowing. The bastard had some powerful friends, and Adam was terrified they’d stop him somehow.”

“You weren’t afraid?” Sherlock prompted. 

“I was frightened, Mr. Holmes. I know how psychotic his father could be. Miss Fraser told me enough about her marriage to that monster, so I knew Adam was being a right idiot when he’d agreed to move here to take care of his father.”

“But that’s because she never told Adam the whole truth?” John asked, sighing. 

Crocker nodded. “No, she never did. So you could imagine the rude shock Adam got when he moved to London. That job of his was the lifesaving grace. He wanted to leave so many times but Adam … well, Adam’s heart is something else. He forgives, you know? I never met a man blessed with more grace than Adam.”

Sherlock felt his eyes burn. He knew such a person, and what would he do to protect such a friend? A friend who, indeed, killed to protect him within a day of introduction?

“Adam can’t perform surgeries anymore,” Crocker added.

“What?” John seemed more taken back than Sherlock by the information.

“The blow to the head, the damage is permanent and his fine motor control’s been compromised,” Crocker said heavily. “The risk is too great for the patient. The hospital knows but wanted to keep it quiet and let Adam go back to Australia without the pity party.”

“Did you know?” Sherlock leaned forward. “About his father’s involvement?”

Crocker looked at Sherlock. “That the fucker had Adam attacked? Oh yes, I knew. Adam doesn’t though. I was going to tell him when he got back home.”

“How did you find out?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“Just sheer luck,” Crocker answered. “The thug who did the actual mugging was bragging about it up and down the pubs near the dock where _Traralgon_ rests. It took me less than a week to find him and get all the information I needed. I could’ve gone to the Yard but who would believe me? A nobody against a titled doctor who was once nominated for the Nobel Prize?

“And that was when I decided to help Adam get out. He wrote to me – good old-fashioned mail - while he was in London. The last one shocked me because he sounded so damn tired. I’ve met people that tired, Mr. Holmes. They usually end up dead in a month, either from exhaustion, carelessness, or by their own hands.”

Sherlock felt adrift, lost. Now more than ever he didn’t want to turn Crocker over to Mycroft. 

“Sherlock,” John pleaded.

_And then there is John. I cannot disappoint him, can I? Where I flounder lost, John is sure and plows ever onwards. And he has never led me astray._

“Yes?” Sherlock asked, looking at the only human being who could be called his friend.

“We can’t. They’ve gone through enough. I know what it’s like watching good people get ground down into the dirt, and be able to do nothing.”

“Are you suggesting we play judge and jury?”

“No, I’m suggesting we know the difference between law and justice.”

_Ever the conductor of light, my John. A self-declared simple man who can easily outdistance all the courts simply by being honest and true._

“This is Dr. Watson, former captain of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He is also my best friend and an incomparable moral compass. I’ll give you a week to disappear.”

“What about Adam?” Crocker asked sharply.

“His part in this charade will be told to some extent, of course, but not to the authorities. There are…”

“No,” Crocker interrupted, aghast. “No, I’m not letting Adam hang for what I did. I killed that heartless bastard and if given the same choice, I’d kill him again. He was beating Adam, do you understand? He was screaming about how worthless a son Adam was and I swear, if I didn’t run in Adam would’ve been dead.”

“Why didn’t Adam fight?”

“His father got the first blow in, and knocked Adam’s head against the mantel,” Crocker explained. “He likes aiming for the skull, from what Miss Fraser told me.”

“Jesus Christ…” John took a sharp breath. “The wound that was bleeding … Sherlock, if Adam had hit that mantel at even a slightly different angle…”

“You really won’t give up on Adam, then?”

Crocker shook her head. “I’ll take my chances with the court. Adam’s been through enough. It ends here, do you understand?”

Sherlock's smile was soft and true. “My, my, John. I think I found your female counterpart.”

“Sherlock?” John asked hopefully.

“Go, Captain. Go back to Australia and wait for your friend. He won’t come to any harm. Not by our hands or any other’s. You’re right. Both of you have paid enough.”

Crocker’s eyes glistened but no tears were shed. “Are you serious?”

“Sir Eustace made many enemies over the years,” Sherlock explained. “Trust me when I say there are too many suspects in the pool as is, and since you’ve been clever enough not to be found, you should have no problem.

“I assume _Traralgon_ can be launched immediately?”

“Of course; she’s mine now.”

“Sail her home, then.”

“Adam will come to no harm?” Crocker asked as she rose from her seat.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, nobody suspects anything of him save for a run of very bad luck.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. And you too, Doctor.”

“Take care of yourself,” John said warmly. “It’s a hard life you’ve chosen.”

“But it’s the one I want.” Crocker then gave them a smile that was only a shadow, but its vitality was breathtaking. “And that’s all I can ask for.”

“I’ll see you to the door,” John offered and followed her downstairs.

Sherlock was happy to note John’s steps were lot lighter coming back. 

“You have a plan?” John asked. “Please tell me you have a plan.”

“I don’t have a plan,” Sherlock countered. “I have a Mycroft.”

“He’s been doing Orwell on us, hasn’t he?”

“I guarantee it. He has reports of all our activities, including our most recent visitor.”

John plopped down on his armchair. “So, what’s next? Because I’m game for burgling Buckingham if it means getting those two off into the sunset free and clear.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from asking. He had to know. “John … I was under the impression … that, well, that your feelings towards Dr. Adam Brackenstall was more … romantic in nature. So, I wonder why you are eager to pair him off with Crocker?”

John blinked rapidly at Sherlock. “Okay, where did that come from?”

Sherlock blew out a gust of breath and flatly stated, “You know my methods. I see everything, and since you are my best friend, I am quite aware of your physical reactions to certain things.”

“Which hasn’t kept you from bringing another bag of toes from Barts, by the way. What? You thought if you kept them under the frozen peas I wouldn’t notice?”

Sherlock had to pause at the non sequitur for a moment before barreling on. “John…”

John gave a frustrated laugh. “Look, I won’t even try to hide it because I know better than to try to fool you, but what I felt and what Crocker feels are miles apart. Am I attracted to Adam? Yes. Am I going to try anything? No. Why? Because he deserves better, Sherlock. And Adam is no fool. He knows what Crocker feels for him.

“I bet the only reason he hasn’t done anything is now dead and gone. He wants to go home, Sherlock. To spend the rest of his life with someone who loves him so much, she was willing to go to prison to make sure he was safe. My attraction to Adam can’t hold a candle to that kind of love and devotion. And loyalty – let’s not forget loyalty. She stuck by him through it all. The good captain deserves some happiness in return, don’t you think?”

Sherlock found it hard to speak so instead he uncoupled the backup drive and tossed it in the air. John caught it gracefully.

“The game is definitely on, then,” John stated, looking curious and eager.

* * *

The door to Mycroft’s private chamber at his club opened with a dramatic bang, telling Mycroft who was visiting.

“Hello, Brother,” Mycroft said, not bothering to look up.

He couldn’t keep up the pretense though when the drive landed right in front of him.

“We found it at Sir Eustace’s home,” Sherlock said. “I ran a decryption programme, but save for a single line I couldn’t unlock it. It was extremely aggravating. John threatened to shove it down my throat if I didn’t give it to you.”

John gave an inelegant snort but otherwise remained silent.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, you should never have done such a thing to begin with.”

“Mycroft, you know me.”

“Yes, yes I do.” Mycroft studied the gift for a moment. “What did you discover?”

“A bank code. Turns out your friend left some keepsakes for his son,” Sherlock answered. “Photos and such; most of them are of his mother. I plan to give them to Adam. Thought he might like something that hasn’t been tainted with violence.”

Mycroft motioned for them to sit. John hesitated for a moment, looking at the Louis XVI chair before delicately taking his seat. Sherlock, on the other hand, landed in his with violence.

“And the woman who visited you earlier?”

“Captain Crocker is her name,” Sherlock answered. “Adam Brackenstall’s lifelong friend and confidante. He ended the relationship after coming to London, probably fearing for her safety.”

“His father didn’t approve of her,” John continued. “Probably felt her beneath the likes of the Brackenstall family, and God forbid if they fell in love and got married. Adam, knowing his father's opinions on marriages, broke it off. The Captain, on the other hand, was having none of it.”

“She knows what Sir Eustace was like because the former Lady Brackenstall told her. The woman treated Crocker like a daughter. So, you could imagine how worried she was when Adam went to London and then broke off all contact.”

Mycroft let out a small sigh. “So, she followed him here.”

“Just in time to find Adam out of work with a head injury, recuperating with his alcoholic, drug-raged father. She offered Adam a way out and he was about to take it when the murder occurred,” Sherlock concluded. “Throwing everything off kilter. Captain Crocker was terrified that Adam would become a suspect. She was actually planning to smuggle him out of the country when we intervened.”

Mycroft winced. “He really thinks that badly of us?”

“The system that would have forced his mother to stay in an unhappy marriage? Yeah, of course he did,” John countered. “Adam was holding on by the skin of his teeth, Mycroft. Do you know he can’t do surgical work anymore?”

Mycroft turned ashen. “No, I did not. I knew his injuries were extensive but not that serious.”

“He can never perform another operation, just like me,” John said. “And living with a dying man who loathed him because he looked like his mother. I can’t imagine what kind of fresh hell that must have been.”

Mycroft sank back into his chair. “When is Adam returning to Australia?”

“Sooner the better,” John said. “We’re hoping Crocker can convince him to leave tomorrow, if at all possible. Sod the estate and the money. If we want Adam to be a functioning human being and not a guest at a local rehab facility - remember, addictions run in families - he needs to go now while he still has the support system.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and saw slight confusion along with envy. Also, relief. Mycroft made a mental note to track his brother’s relationship with John with more diligence. Dr. Watson was by no means careless with Sherlock. It was Mycroft’s greatest fear that Sherlock would somehow inadvertently cause an irreparable rift between himself and the only human being who truly appreciated him for what he was.

_Thank heavens Adam is itching to go._ Mycroft concluded. _Otherwise, I might have had to do something to hurry him along._

“I will ensure that Adam leave England as soon as possible. Legal matters can be handled by phone, and I see no reason why Adam has to be delayed. I trust you will handle Detective Lestrade?”

“That won’t be a problem,” Sherlock said, standing up. He looked at John and stated, “I’d like a private word with Mycroft.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s dramatic request and shook his head with fondness. “Sometimes I think the stage has missed a great actor.”

Mycroft gave one of his bland smiles but the twinkle in his eyes was genuine as he watched John leave.

Sherlock pulled out a wooden box and opened it. He placed it delicately in front of Mycroft. The older Holmes looked at the watch, his eyes widening in horror when he finally understood what he was looking at.

“Adam doesn’t know,” Sherlock said in a low voice. “I remember you spoke fondly of Sir Eustace when I was young, so I sincerely hope he wasn’t always so monstrous.”

Mycroft remained quiet as Sherlock left, leaving him with the damning evidence on his desk.

* * *

Lestrade just turned off the tele when the doorbell rang. Cursing because he already knew who it was, the detective inspector opened the door and was promptly propelled back into the flat by Sherlock and John.

Sherlock handed over what looked like an expensive book. Lestrade opened it, saw the hole, and swore loudly.

“It _was_ a robbery,” Lestrade said. “Bloody hell.”

“They reached Adam first,” Sherlock said. “Tortured him in front of his father who broke and gave them what they wanted. They killed Sir Eustace and then left Adam for dead. They were responsible for the earlier attack on the son: probably a warning to the father. It was quite fortuitous that the son survived both attacks on his person.”

“But Adam can’t perform surgeries anymore,” John added. “His position as a cardiothoracic surgeon is over. It’s not public news but he has brain damage.”

“Oh shit,” Lestrade said, frowning. “The poor bloke.”

“And though you will never be able to verify – Sir Eustace worked for the government for decades on classified projects. So, when you close this case, be prepared for it to disappear. But don’t be too angry. Sir Eustace’s former employers will do their best to hunt down his murderers.”

“I wondered about that, especially since Oakweld’s not within my jurisdiction and Mycroft was waiting for me when I got there,” Lestrade said. “Why did you give me this?”

“Thought you should know,” John answered. “After all, this was your case.”

“So, it’s robbery turned homicide, then,” Lestrade said and snapped the book closed.

“Just not the family silver,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft is making preparations for Adam to leave England and return to his home. Both of us feel that it would be safer for the son if he were not in London for the foreseeable future. And his recuperation would have more positive results if he were taken care by people he trusts.”

“Adam would also feel safer taking treatments with neurologists he knows personally,” John explained. “That way, it will be easier if he wants to return to the medical field in some capacity.”

“Thanks for this," Lestrade said, waving the book. "Is Mycroft all right?”

“No, he is still very much upset,” Sherlock answered. “But there are other emergencies he needs to handle. There always is, for men like him.”

“You two go home. John looks dead on his feet and I know you haven’t eaten anything besides what John’s been forcing on you.”

Sherlock raised an aristocratic eyebrow before whooshing out of the flat, leaving behind a bemused Lestrade.

“Chinese?” John asked as they left the building. “I feel like celebrating.”

“We can’t. At least not yet. Mycroft’s men are watching.”

“And they know when we eat Chinese we’re celebrating?”

“John, they probably know the colour of the pants you’re currently wearing.”

“And Mycroft’s creepy omniscience has once again ruined a good night’s sleep,” John got into the cab. “Indian, then?”

“I can do with a good curry. Yes, Gateway, then?”

“Sounds good.”

* * *

Mycroft stared at the two photos that cycled through his screen. His eyes were blurry though it was impossible to tell if they were tears of exhaustion or emotion.

So focused was he, Mycroft nearly missed his phone ringing. He looked at the screen and frowned.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector.”

“I wanted to tell you I talked to Sherlock and John an hour ago,” Lestrade said. “And that I’ve finished the paperwork on the case. Officially, it will go down on paper as robbery gone wrong. And that the murderers were spooked enough to throw away the stolen goods because of Sir Eustace’s death and his son’s condition.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, genuinely grateful for Lestrade’s discretion and understanding.

“I wanted to tell you … that I’m sorry your friend’s dead,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft held his breath for a moment. It was a record that he’d been taken unawares not once but twice in a single day. “Are you really? After knowing what kind of man he was?”

“Yeah, look, to other people he might have been a complete bastard. But he must have treated you right because I can’t see the man earning your loyalty otherwise. And we both know you’ve been dealing with addictive personalities since well … for decades, now.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, overwhelmed by gratitude. Not for the first time he wondered how such a good man like Greg Lestrade ended up in NSY.

“He was my mentor when I left University,” Mycroft explained. “I was brilliant, but I lacked the finesses in handling people. Like Sherlock, I was allowed too much leeway because of my mental acuities. It was a harsh lesson to have all that support stripped away once I left. However, Sir Eustace took an interest in my welfare after meeting me. He respected my gifts, but understood my shortcomings and how to ameliorate them. He also made my first position great deal more palatable. I daresay a sizeable portion of my success was because of him, Detective Inspector.

“His decline was very hard to watch, and I cannot help but wonder if I could have done something, anything, to stop it from happening.”

“Mycroft, I know you. If there was something you could have done, you did it. I have no doubt about that.”

Mycroft jammed his fingers into the corners of his eyes in order to stop the tears. “It means a great deal to me that you have such faith.”

“You forgot I’ve seen you deal with Sherlock while he was at his lowest. And I’ll tell you – the effort you put in to drag Sherlock out of his addiction was superhuman. You did everything you could: for both of them.

“And know that at least with Sherlock, you got through. And that’s a miracle right there.”

“It is,” Mycroft agreed slowly. “Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

“You’re welcome,” Lestrade said. “Go to sleep if you can, and if you can’t – see what you can do about that atrocious match last night. I don’t care how good Nadal is; that was blatant prejudicial call from the referee.”

Mycroft found himself chuckling. “I will see what can be done. I’m guessing the match was not to your liking?”

“Murray would’ve done better if he’d fallen asleep on the court,” Lestrade commented drily. 

“I had no idea you were a fan of tennis.”

“My mum was,” Lestrade explained. “She got into it when we lived in France. Clay court was her thing.”

“Then it's a miracle you were cheering for Murray,” Mycroft quipped, hoping none of his emotions were bleeding through.

Sensing Mycroft’s distress, Lestrade said, “Good night and take care.”

“Good night, Detective.”

Mycroft ended the call and went back to staring at the two pictures. One was of him, young and still struggling with his weight. His hair was wildly curled like Sherlock’s was now but auburn. The man who was standing next to him was tall, byronically handsome, and seemed genuinely happy to keep company with the awkward young man next to him.

The second featured an older Mycroft sitting next to the same man, but the years had not been kind to him. And yet, in spite of the haggard face and silver hair, there was still an echo of charisma and strength in the dark brows and sharp chin.

Mycroft wondered what possessed Eustace to keep these two photos in the backup drive along with a host of highly-classified information that, in detail, revealed his work for the British Government during Sir John’s and Blair’s time as Prime Ministers.

He studied the pictures just once more before deleting them permanently. Mycroft had not saved them; there was no need. His memory was even better than Sherlock’s. 

He called Anthea. “I have some information that needs to be reviewed as early as possible.”

“I will be right there, Sir.”

Mycroft returned his focus to the sticky situation that had cropped up in the last six months: Moriarty.

_How to deal with a man who can’t be bought, negotiated, or blackmailed?_


	4. Bees and Sussex

“Bees?” Sherlock echoed in shock, his eyes wide with delight. “You have bees?”

“No, I don’t have bees,” John said, smiling at his friend’s reaction. “I never told you about my grandparents’ cottage in Sussex?”

Sherlock shook his head violently.

“Well, not much to tell, really,” John said. “Harriet and I inherited it after Grandmother passed away. Mrs. Leeds is the caretaker right now but she’s getting on in years. I’m pretty sure she’ll be wanting to move to Wales so she could spend more time with her family. Anyway, I’ve been squirreling away my share of investigation fees so I could buy Harriet’s share of the property.

“That way I’ve got something to retire to. Coming back to London after being kicked out of the Army was incredibly unpleasant, and I don’t want to go through that again.”

“Let’s get back to the bees,” Sherlock prompted.

“My grandfolks kept bees. They’ve got hives all over the place. What’s with you and bees, exactly?”

“They’re brilliant, John!” Sherlock exclaimed, hopping off the sofa and over the coffee table. “And fascinating!”

John’s smile brightened. “You really like bees, then?”

“When I was a child I was hoping to write my chef d’oeuvre on the bees my grandmother kept.”

“Really? What happened?”

“She passed away suddenly and her property was transformed into a successful artist colony. Unfortunately the hives suffered during the transition period and most died out.”

“Yeah, they are sensitive to change, especially if it effects the land around them,” John muttered. “My Nana woke up at sunrise to make sure she didn’t bother them too much when she had to handle the hives. I just remember the noise – the bees droning on and on. Harriet hated the sound, but I loved it. It calmed me and made me think of happy things.”

Sherlock beamed. “I knew you were different! Mycroft hated them. The only peace I ever had was when I was helping grand-mère around the hives. No one dared to bother us, then. Even Mummy kept her distance.”

John couldn’t ignore how happy Sherlock looked. “Want to take a holiday to Sussex in August? You know the weather in London’s going to be atrocious. Might as well head for the shores.”

Sherlock gasped. “The property is near the sea?”

John laughed. “Yes, you prat. It is. But I have to warn you the plumbing hasn’t changed since the Blitz and the furniture might fall to pieces under you. And there is _no_ Wifi to speak of.”

Sherlock flapped his hand in casual dismissal. “Oh, please, even in the wilds of Sussex I can find a connection.”

“I’m driving by the way.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not likely!”

“I distinctly remember your driving during the Baskerville fiasco. Never again.”

Sherlock mentally winced. “Not my fault the rocks were there!”

“You weren’t driving on roads, Sherlock. So, the rocks had every right to be where they were. And we’re not renting a Land Rover. Bloody temperamental things.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock said, then slyly added, “I can’t wait to tell Lestrade we’re going on a holiday. Can you imagine the look on his face?”

“I can’t wait until you tell Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s laughter boomed in the sitting room. After taking his tea, Sherlock flipped through the stacks of mail they’d been studiously ignoring in favor of an interesting case involving a missing Pomeranian and an emerald ring estimated at two million pounds.

A charity brochure with overseas address caught his eye as he studied the glossy pages with great interest. Familiar faces beamed from the picture at the back of the catalog.

Sherlock trotted over to John and handed him the brochure. John studied it until he too caught sight of Adam and Janet. The two were sitting on a bench, each holding a water canteen, and smiling brightly at the camera. What was equally bright was the engagement ring on Crocker’s finger.

John’s eyes shone as he tore off the last page and hid it in one of his medical books. He didn’t say anything as he sat across from Sherlock, both safely ensconced in their respective chairs.

 _This is perfect_ , Sherlock thought as he painted the moment on the ceiling of the library in his Mind Palace: the one he’d fashioned after Melk. _I never imagined my life could reach this level of contentment. And yet, here I am. Thank you, John._

The two men looked at each other, satisfaction and relief shining from both their faces.

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always believed Mycroft had a hard time adjusting, like Sherlock, right after his academic career was over. He might have been a fast learner and not as socially inept as his younger brother, but still, manipulating people takes time and huge amount of work to finesse.
> 
> Of course, this casefic is based on _The Adventure of the Abbey Grange_ , which was surprisingly honest about domestic violence during an era when such things were rarely talked about, much less written with such brutal clarity.
> 
> I have a hard time writing from John's POV because it would differ wildly from Sherlock's or even Lestrade's. So, the story would have the Rashomon effect w/o the brilliance, and readers would just end up with a nosebleed.
> 
> Having said that, I will probably end up writing from John's POV at the final installment of the series, because let's face it - John coming to terms with not only his attraction to Sherlock but all that would entail (Holmes Family in all their glory) - would be interesting to say the least.


End file.
